


The Root and the Vine of Your Power

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: Dominatrix, Dungeon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Married Sex, POV Second Person, Submission, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: "The sound of your name as a plea for mercy just adds to the spiking arousal climbing your own spine, tangling your mind in its urgent quest to be relieved. Your name is a watershed, bare and stripped of its queridas and cara mias, and it usually signals the end of the elongated preamble."





	The Root and the Vine of Your Power

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, there's no excuse...  
> None of the characters belong to me, I just like meddling with them.

 

 

* * *

You think, for a fleeting moment, that you should offer him some water. Then the thought passes again, and you tilt your head to the side to examine him. His eyes are closed - serenely, not pressed or straining - and his mouth is slack with both the effort of exertion and the feign of  apathy which he has been so careful to cultivate tonight.

You appreciate the performance, but you are also keenly and entirely aware that it _is_ a performance.

He has had a tough few weeks with one thing and another of business, and he doesn’t regularly ask for such a protracted display of your most delicate qualities, and yet that was what he requested after the children were in bed.

And what kind of wife would you be to deny him that pleasure?

More to the point, what kind of woman would you be to deny _yourself_ that pleasure?

“I will pay for this tomorrow,” he says loosely,smiling madly, not opening his eyes.

“Have you forgotten the rules?” You ask quietly and his eyes spring open.

“I did,” he cannot help but grin, and you want to chastise him for it, but then he schools his face.”I apologise.”

You simply sneer, and it has the desired reaction as he wriggles against his bonds and hums with impatience.

You want to devour him when he is like this; pliant,breaking,vulnerable.

And so handsome.

So handsome your own breath catches in your throat when the light from the torches hits his skin at just the right angle, and the sheen of sweat and blood glitters almost golden-red, like the dying sun as it sinks behind the Ponte Vecchio. He looks like something from a Caravaggio, all muscle and sinew and agony and abasement.

And the ache that rustles through him, so strong it manifests itself in physical trembling, the ache he has to be with you - inside you -, to be consumed wholly by you, is the tipping point of the image in your mind, from something attractive to downright erotic.

It makes your stomach twitch, your arousal scream into a bottomless pit.

If you were a more impulsive woman, you wouldn’t have the patience to deny yourself the satisfaction you derive from his release. Not for the first time in your marriage, you find yourself silently thanking the forces which thrust you together that your patience is your only saintly quality.

That, and your smile.

He is watching you, his dark, wonderful eyes examining every inch of your person, as if he’s looking for an answer.

You pray he never gets his answer, because that would sound the knell on the fun you’re having here.

He’s still dumbstruck, and the momentary worry that he might finally grow bored sinks below the throbbing urgency of the power you know you exercise over him.

And you can’t entirely blame him, because your choice of outfit - if it can be described as an outfit given the scarcity of it - was entirely deliberate and, by the reaction it has garnered, entirely suitable for the purpose.

When you had appeared before him, after giving him strict instructions about how he was to wait on you, the hitch in his breath had been a marker of just how completely he still wants you.

Scantily clad optional, of course.

“You like my outfit?” You ask demurely, and he quirks a brow.

“It’s certainly new,” he answers. “And it leaves little to the imagination.”

You examine your nails, and tap your favourite riding crop on your thigh, pretending that his answer is of trifling import. You do this, because you like him furious before you finally bring about the climax of this production.

“You have a rampant imagination,” you answer coldly, and he groans and you can see he is about to beg.

“Please just-”

With a flick of your wrist you bring the crop down across his already burning chest,  and it snaps against his beautiful skin, leaving an angry welt in its wake.

“Quiet,” you order and, placing your hand on the delicately carved and high back of the chair, lean in. “Will you ever learn?”

“I hope not.”

You want to laugh, kiss him even, tell him that all of this stripped aside, you hope he never learns either.

But you have a role, and a job, and as much an endgame to achieve as him. So you merely pout and slap the crop downwards, where it comes into contact with his painfully erect cock, and he hisses his agony into the white heat of the dungeon.

“Morticia!”

The sound of your name as a plea for mercy just adds to the spiking arousal climbing your own spine, tangling your mind in its urgent quest to be relieved. Your name is a watershed, bare and stripped of its _queridas_ and _cara mias_ , and it usually signals the end of the elongated preamble.

But you are feeling contrary tonight, and experimental, and decide to see how far you can push him.

Because you like a challenge, and so does he.

He looks at you, panting, and reads the sentiment in your eyes and you swear he is about to weep with joy at the prospect.

Or perhaps he wants to weep in frustration, you contemplate for a moment.

Either way, you don’t have to see his visceral reaction - the straining ache of his muscles in his thighs and groin, the clench of his jaw, the glisten of liquid leaking from him - to know that he wants _this_.

All you have to do is gaze into his eyes. The wide, immeasurable satisfaction that he conveys with just a look.

And the sheer, unadulterated love that is there too.

You know this is the root and the vine of your power. Here is what power looks like, reflected right back at you as if you are staring into a looking glass.

The openness of him, the sheer willingness to please you, the depths of his trust in you to bring his deliverance all stare back at you.

And you could never resist a challenge.

“If I have to tell you to be silent again, unless given permission to answer, you will need to be punished,” you say softly, the words singing off your tongue as if you’re reciting verse.

He nods, perfectly silent, and you glimpse his knuckles whitening at his sides as he uses all of his strength to follow your instructions.

“How should I punish you if you do? You may speak.”

And you walk away to a long table set out in the middle of the room, directly in his eye line.

You think it’s about time you let him release a little of that steam that’s about to explode forth. He’s naturally loquacious, in every other element of your lives, where you tend more towards contemplative silence. You don’t undervalue the power of language, of course, but you also recognise the power of silence.

Especially when you’re enforcing it.

“Make me watch you,” he breathes, almost one word as they rush from him. “Burn me, choke me. Anything. Anything you want to do.”

As he pleads you put the crop down, and you trail your fingers along the instruments laid out. You rarely use them - some practical favourites, others tools of metaphor or just for the sheer satisfaction of their design - and your fingers alight on the one most pertinent to your current train of thought.

“Whatever you want to do to me, I will want it too,” he says more calmly, more measured. “Just-”

The Tongue Tearer: crudely, but aptly named. You hold it up to examine it, and his voice dies out to be replaced with a whine of delight.

You’ve no intention of using it; even you have limits, but the idea of it is enough to excite both of you.

You set it back down and lean against the table, and he draws his eyes up to look at you, far away as you are from him.

You delight in the quiver of his thighs, in the tense set of his feet splayed out against the stones of the floor. And the hard, agonising erection that juts out obscenely from his body.

You lick your own lips and revel in the absolute commitment he has to this moment, and to his complete arousal.

It takes a particularly confident kind of man to let you do what you do and to allow the way in which you like to do it, and you are delighted you happened to marry him.

There is no emasculation here, you think to yourself. In fact, he is the perfect picture of masculinity.

It makes you feel beautiful, when you look upon him.

Settling your rear against the table, you think it’s about high time you got to enjoy the obscenity of this moment too. Spreading your legs, stilettos parallel to your hips, you use one hand to steady yourself against the surface while the other slides between your legs, and you begin touching yourself with the kind of abandon you know he loves.

And rest assured, you love it too.

He thrashes against his bonds, the metal rattling through your soft moans, and he roars his frustration - like a caged beast. You keep eye contact with him, never stopping the slow twist of your fingers, enjoying the slick wetness of your own body.

“I do this when you go on business trips,” you say lightly, as if it’ll be news to him that you do.

He moans and thrusts his forearms back hard against the restraints, but all it does is make him angrier. His throat bulges around the golden joug at his neck, and it makes you want to devour the sinuous ropes of the delectable muscles there.

Your mouth waters at the very thought, and you set a new pace between your thighs.

“Calm down,” you say, commandingly, almost disparagingly.

He immediately stops and stills his body.

And he looks so glorious, that you want to taste the sheen of sweat on his skin.  A low hiss escapes your own lips, and you know you’re pushing a barrier here that you don’t yet want to crash through, so in the self-controlled vein for which you’re so well known, you withdraw your hand from yourself.

He breathes heavily as he watches you come towards him, your slow sway teasing him, and you straddle one hard thigh, inches from his face.

You raise your fingers to his mouth and he opens his lips, sucking the taste of you onto his tongue.

“Well done,” you murmur when you withdraw them from his mouth, raking your fingers across his jaw. “Do I taste good, mon cher?”

He whines and nods.

“You can tell me,” you whisper, grinding yourself against his thigh, your own wetness making for a gratifying slide against his skin.

“Delicious. Water in a dessert, food in a famine,” he elaborates. “Like a-”

You place your fingers over his lips.

“That’s enough,”you say gently. “No need for overwrought metaphors.”

He nods, his mouth and moustache rubbing against your fingers.

You stand again, this time bending to press his knees together, so he is no longer straddling the chair.

“I love this chair,” you says, a fact you like to share with him on as many occasions as the opportunity presents itself.

He watches you with longing eyes, and you suspect he is predicting your next move. He’s most likely predicted correctly, and you think it might be time to let this run its natural course.

And you’ve always been an enthusiastic believer in everything having its own time.

“It’s so beautiful,” you say, running your nail along the flesh above the shining restraint at his neck, enjoying the prickle of his skin at your touch. “Such fine craftsmanship. A perfect example of Ottoman ingenuity, and creativity. I think I like the gold accents the most.”

You touch the gold manacle around his wrist as you stands by his side.

“But then…” you straddle both his legs this time, pressing up against his body.

His cock throbs between you both, reminding you, ultimately, of why you do all of this.

It’s a very potent reminder.

You look down at it, and then at him and raise an approving brow. He grins.

Your regain your line of thought, after that break in character.

“But then again...i think it’s the function of it, rather than the aesthetic, which gives it such an important place in my…” you pretend to search for the right metaphorical location,”heart.”

He grins wildly.

And you slide your hands up and over his chest, over his shoulders, to the edges of the narrow chair and headrest.

You could hear the thundering of his heart if you listen closely enough. You imagine you do, but maybe it is your own.

Either way, it’s really very erotic.

Your hands, trembling with reserve, alight on the capstan wheel at the back of the headrest, and you give it one full turn.

He tenses his jaw as the instrument, a long golden metal rod propelled by the turn of the wheel, presses at the back of his neck. You visualize the press on his spine, the way it compresses the muscles and sinew and bone tightly. The shortening of his breath helps you imagine the contraction of his windpipe as it’s forced against his larynx.

“What I like most,” you sigh in his ear,”is that it’s so ambiguous.”

You lift yourself up, positioning yourself over him, and sink down onto him in one effortless, practised, motion. You watch in abject excitement as the muscles in his jaw contract and clench and he howls openly, the noise almost enough to make your next decision an unmeasured one.

But not quite.

You twist the wheel again, as you move sinuously against him, feeling every hard inch that you’ve patiently waited for since this morning. You pick up pace as he gasps for air.

“That ambiguity; is it the lack of oxygen that will kill you, or the snapping of your spine?”

You ask, the entire concept sending shards of excitement - sharp as glass - to every undulating muscle in your body.

A quarter turn - you want to be judicious, not homicidal - and you know you’re teetering perilously close to the edge. Your husband, however, has stamina that even you find a little inhumane. One hand still on the capstan, you use his knee to support you as you lean backwards, and you move with wild abandon, knowing full well the view will be his undoing.

“Watch me,” you command, knowing it’s an unnecessary instruction: he wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.

And you ride him - it’s a crude description, but it is what it is - until you think your own breath is constricted too, until it feels your own spine will split apart under the sheer pressure of chasing your own release - and his. Until he is growling ferally, using the little space he has to thrust up into you, entirely outwith his own, and your, control.

“And…” you stop suddenly, because you can’t resist the temptation to toy with him just a little more, lifting yourself forward so he can see your face.

You stretch the pause out, enjoying the stillness of him within you -despite the fact he is desperate to move -, enjoying the unparalleled power you weild in this moment.

Enjoying him.

“You may speak,” you say softly, and resume the frantic movements of moments before.

“Morticia,” he cries. “Morticia, you are magnificent. Fearless. Powerful.”

Not that you need reminding, but it’s nice to hear nonetheless.

You lean forward and grind hard against him, and come apart entirely around him. Your own voice seems to exist outwith your body, your cry strange as you float above it in a sea of black pleasure, and his own orgasm extends the ecstasy out and you feel another ripple of pleasure as he comes hard inside you, with a howl of satisfaction.

After what feels like an eternity, you fall forward, your hand that had been gripping the wheel slowly loosening it. One must be careful when reducing the pressure on the spine - it’s a delicate moment, but one you’re entirely familiar with.

He is murmuring lovingly in your ear as you loosen it entirely, and then you screw the restraints at his right wrist loose, and he shakes them off and holds your hip in place as you loosen the other wrist.

You smile at him, languid satisfaction you’re sure is reflected in your own face staring back at you, and quirk a brow.

“Wonderful, he answers, knowing exactly what you’re asking.

Your white fingers come up, lovingly grazing the skin of his neck, and you snap the joug open, letting it swing loose. He rolls and stretches his neck, and then he slides both hands onto your rear and pulls you against his warm body. You can’t resist and, as you rest your face in the crook of his neck, you want to taste him. Salt, cigars, contentment as your tongue darts out and he laughs briefly before squeezing you to him again.  



End file.
